Halo: New Contact
by n1ko
Summary: A fictional short story following Sergeant Johnson and the marines featured in the opening scenes of Halo3, a prelude to the first two levels of the game. Entirely fictual, non approved or endorsed by either Microsoft or Bunjie.
1. PART ONE

HALO: NEW CONTACT

If you are a halo fanatic like me, then you will recognize this as a prelude to the first scenes of halo3. I don't own any rights or characters in or about halo, and this work is entirely fictional and devoid of any real correspondence to the actual events in game or otherwise. Feel free to review or criticize, it's my first submission and real story and i am looking for input. Actually, PLEASE review it, i want to know that someone has actually read this. Thanks! (Ive gone ahead and edited most of the language to make it more suitable for readers, Hoepfully it will not take away from its effect."

Definitions for all you non-halo people (why would you be reading this if you are one? Most of you know this stuff, but i included it just in case.)

Marines: military force shipped around by the UNSC navy. Primary miltary forces of humanity.

Covenant: social cast of different alien races, all hostile to humans, with superior technology and manpower. Led by a Prophet(s), and formally commanded by Elites, now by Brutes. Other species mentioned herein include Jackals, serving as scouts and sharpshooters, and Grunts, which are almost comedic "cannon fodder", used as front line infantry, or living shields.

Seperatists: A former member of the Covenant, mainly Elites, who broke away and are sided with humans

Master Chief: UNSC soldier, specifically a Spartan, who fights inside an armor suit, with enhanced speed, reflexes, and strength. He is the character that the player controls in game.

Cortana: UNSC shipboard artificial intelligence, who can interface with the Master Chief's armor. She holds information crucial to Earth's victory.

Flood: Parasitic lifeforms that turn hosts into mutant zombies. Ahhh!

Pelican: nickname for UNSC troop carrier dropship

MA5-C: updated version of the Halo 1 assault rifle, fires automatic, more acurrate rounds, smaller clip size.

Particle Beam Rifle: Covenant sniper rifle. Carbine: Covenant medum-range rifle, fires green plasma shots. The Covenant have other assorted plasma weaponry, such as pistols and rifles, however.

The Arbiter: One of the Seperatist Elite's two commanders, who is seen and fought alongside with often throughout Halo2 and 3.

Anything else, just figure it out. There will eventually be approx. 3 parts. Enjoy.

PART ONE

"Crap!"Jimmy yelled, grasping futilely at the air were his helmet had just been. He was afraid to look, but he dared a glance over the edge. Christ, he thought. The green topper was gone already, falling towards the Earth. He pulled his head back inside the cargo bay, bent over, and vomited. He had forgotten that he was terrified of heights, but the view of a ten thousand foot drop quickly reminded him.

Sergeant Major Avery J. Johnson grabbed him by the gruff of the neck, and threw him back into his crash seat violently. "Can't hold your lunch, marine?!" He barked through clenched teeth. For a moment Johnson looked puzzled and stopped chomping his cigar.

"Were the hell's your helmet?" He noticed.

"It fell…Sarge."

"Well go get it! That cost the Corps a lot of money." Johnson said, with perfectly counterfeited seriousness. He was staring down the young marine. _These greenhorns, they're not even eighteen yet,_ he thought to himself. _We're sending boys to fight a man's war. _

"Sarge, it fell…like really far. I'll be okay, I promise. I don't plan on getting shot."

"Dammit son, I don't care if you're alright, it's the tech in that helmet I'm worried about! And believe me; no one ever _plans_ on getting shot."

The color drained from Jimmy's face, he stared in unspeakable horror at Johnson. Nothing was scarier than the infamous battle-hardened black marine staring you down. For a moment all was quiet, except for the wine of the drop ship's engines. Johnson's eyes were fierce. If looks could kill, Jimmy would have been six feet under. The rest of the squad was silent.

Sarge couldn't hold it in any longer, he collapsed laughing, almost losing his stubby cigar. Johnson liked to joke around and he wouldn't hurt a fly (assuming the fly wasn't an enemy). He knew that he was intimidating, but inside he cared for each and every marine like his own kin; he just had a strong sense of humor. But Jimmy didn't laugh: he was petrified.

"I'm pulling your leg, Private! Haha! Get it? A joke?" He tried to convince him, but Jimmy was still aghast. Johnson patted him hard on the back, tossed him a spare helmet and a rag, and told him to clean himself up. The duration of the flight was silent.

The Pelican was nearing the designated landing zone. The marines needed to gear up. Jimmy barely could find were to put the MA5-C's magazine, and the others weren't much better. Pvt. Ramirez couldn't even find the safety on his handgun. _Holy Mary, these boys are going to get eaten alive down there,_ Johnson thought as he handed Ramirez's pistol back to him. The war had been going on for so long that there were barely any experienced marines left, and there weren't that many humans surviving in general. It scared him that in a few minutes he'd be _fighting_ alongside them, while he was basically babysitting them. _May as well have given a rifle to a kindergartener._

"Hey Sarge, turn down that crap!" Owens called out, referring to the heavy metal that began screaming through the Pelican's speakers. The others joined in the incoherent rambling.

"That crap is good music son; it's a part of your heritage as a human being!" He barked in response.

"Yeah well, I wouldn't mind it if the Covenant glassed over _that_ piece of history. How can you stand that stuff? ...Sarge? Sarge!?"

Johnson had drifted, he wasn't there anymore. No, he was still in a pelican, but someplace else. Owens and Ramirez and James, Wayne and the others were gone; he was with another squad of marines. And Jenkins. Poor Jenkins, Christ. They were landing, and it was swampy. The marines were joking at his music again, but he ordered everyone to resort to radio silence. Hand signals only. They began moving, trekking through the swamp, towards a fate worse than death, towards terrifying, horrific, traumatizing pain…

He snapped out of it.

"Sarge, you alright?" The marines were concerned, all perceivably worried.

"I'm fine boys, I just drifted off there. We're gonna hit the LZ hard, make sure you got your guns in order." He played his prior trance off, simultaneously cocking his own MA5-C rifle. "Everyone geared up?"

The marines acknowledged, except for Owens asking for a second grenade.

"Let's review our objectives one last time." Johnson suggested. "Spartan 117, the Master Chief, landed somewhere in this god-forsaken jungle last night. We're tasked with finding him and bringing him back to Crow's Nest, our temporary HQ in this sector. We have his relative coordinates, but we are dropping in approximately a mile from his site in order to clear an escape route of any hostiles."

Johnson hated briefing his marines; it made the situation into a field report. They were really going to rescue the Chief, who was possibly Earth's last hope. He also happened to be Johnson's long-time friend. Johnson didn't tell his marines that the Chief was dead, however. The Spartan's GPS tracker hadn't moved in over six hours, which meant he was dead. Spartans didn't stay in the same place _alive_ for six hours.

No, his platoon was really tasked with retrieving the AI construct Cortana. She held the secrets needed to finally destroy the Covenant and save humanity, and was in possession of the Master Chief, who was certainly dead. Johnson just _wished_ that they were going to rescue Master Chief.

Johnson paused. "First squad, you're our scouts. Wayne, Owens, Ramirez, Caponi, and Connolly. That means you keep it quiet, total recon. Don't fire a single round until second squad, Sampson, Norton, Golding, Kohl and me, get into position. We've got a lot of ground to cover, so don't get separated. And we are coordinating with Bravo Team. They are opening up an escape route ahead of us. This mission is all about timing, every step has to go perfectly." They all nodded approvingly, and then sat anxiously in silence.

"Sir, what are we fighting? We've all heard about the Covenant, but really, what are we up against?" Jimmy inquired. These men were definitely green alright, but honestly Johnson wasn't sure of the answer himself.

The Sangheili, known as Elites, were now separatists. Their species had abandoned The Covenant and sided with the humans. But the rest of the Covenant was in turmoil; almost all of the species had their own separatists and loyalists, so really they could encounter anything. They would certainly come across Brutes however; the apelike aliens were ferociously loyal to The Covenant.

"We don't know. Keep your eyes open, anything that moves is bound to be hostile. Don't let your guard down, marines."

"Sergeant Major, I'm beginning the descent. Get ready." The pilot's voice crackled over a faulty comm. signal. Johnson re-cocked his rifle, shook the clip, aimed down the sights, and lowered it back down, satisfied with the weapon. They were expecting heavy resistance.

The Pelican lowered beneath the foliage, hovering ten feet above the forest floor. The ten marines piled out, jumping, or in Jimmy's case falling to the ground below. Johnson was out first with his rifle raised. He spun around, checking his fire zones. No contacts. The rest of the squads formed up, moved in a delta pattern out of the small clearing, and paced into the thicket.

The Pelican noisily lifted off. Then everything was silent, except for a few exotic birds. It was hot, dark, and foggy. Combined with the jungle's density, it was almost impossible to see. But Johnson was worried: they should be shooting by now. Where was the enemy?

"Sarge, where's the enemy?" Jimmy asked frantically, almost reading his mind. Johnson raised a finger to his lips and mouthed "shh" silently in response. The rest of the marines were watching him: his assault rifle was raised, tracking an invisible target. The marines were worried now; they all clicked off their safeties and peered into the clearing, searching for what the Sergeant saw.

"AHHH! Sarge!, where is it? Tell me!" Jimmy yelled. The others tried to quiet him, but he lost it! The suspense was eating away at him- he got up and ran out into the clearing screaming, doused with sunlight, and violently spun head over heels as a blue contrail of plasma slammed into his head.

The other nine sat quietly, horrified, one threw up. They were totally unnerved; a sniper had shot Jimmy dead.

"That's why you follow orders." Johnson whispered coolly to the men without lowering his sights. For another minute they all crouched silently, unmoving, with Jimmy's corpse laying in the sun. It was tense, the squad was terrified to even move, but they were antsy. The Covenant forces could be all around them, waiting for the marines to take one wrong step. They strained their eyes and ears searching for an enemy, but all they heard were crickets and squawking birds, and there was nothing to see aside from the green brush.

Then the intense tranquility was broken by an echoing squawk, but it was unlike any bird: it was unnatural and terrifying. Owens was just about to ask what it was, but his jaw dropped when he saw it: across the clearing a limp rag doll was ejaculated from the undergrowth. The alien carcass twisted unnaturally into a slump, dripping with purple blood. Then everything became still again.

"Lower your weapon, human." A deep voice commanded only feet behind the marines. All but Johnson wheeled around, and screamed in unison. A dark Elite hunched before them. Johnson sighed and was at ease.

"Boys, this is the Arbiter. He's on our side." Johnson grinned.

The marines were still petrified. They had never seen a live alien before, and suddenly an eight-foot-tall reptilian monster towered over them. He was adorned with futuristic medieval amour covering his purple body. In his hand was the distinct glowing shape of a Covenant energy rifle, which hummed slightly. His mandibled mouth glowed orange and surprisingly spoke in fluent English: "You are here for your Spartan, correct?"

"Yeah" Johnson replied regrettably.

"You go your own way, I will take the ridge." He pointed up to a mountainous outcropping in the distance. "We will meet up later. Beware of more Jackals; there are sharpshooters throughout these woods." And with that the Elite turned and ran off into the thicket, simultaneously turning invisible with his light-bending camouflage.

As soon as the Arbiter had disappeared Johnson ran out to Jimmy, but he didn't need to check him over. The boy was dead, no doubt about it. A helmet couldn't save him from that shot. A marine asked about the Arbiter and Johnson told him not to worry, just be happy that he was on their side. Most of them were just as confused; they had just met, and then seen off a _friendly_ alien? They knew the Elites had sided with humanity but never expected to actually see one, let alone be saved by it.

They all regrouped, squad 1 headed off northward first, while squad 2 waited. They were to give first squad a three minute advance start. In the meantime Johnson commandeered the dead Jackal's particle beam rifle. It was lightweight, yet very strong, because of the alien metals that it was composed of. The battery cell glowed purple as Johnson tested its sights. Lately he had been getting accustomed to these weapons.

It had been three minutes. They radioed a confirmation signal and quietly headed into the jungle. Johnson was on point, occasionally pausing at moments to scope out the origin of a noise or sudden movement. The rest of the marines followed. After a minute or two they received an alert message from first squad, and they regrouped. Second squad was stopped only a few hundred meters ahead.

When they met up they saw why they had stopped: beneath their feet lay the bodies of a dozen dead Covenant. Strewn over the rocky forest were bodies of fat little Grunts, three more vulture-like Jackals, and even a large, scorched corpse that could only be a Brute. Splatters of multi-colored blood dripped from ferns and wildflowers, and the abandoned plasma weapons glowed on the ground. The carnage was so recent that flies hadn't even begun to swarm over the dead.

The marines took time to stare in awe at the remains, while a few collected plasma pistols as souvenirs. Pvt. Ramirez caught the attention and amusement of the others as he failed to brandish the Brute's unwieldy grenade launcher. He picked it up, trying to show off, and proceeded to collapse backwards onto its previous owner's body. He scrambled off, disgusted, as the others laughed.

Johnson, however, had a grave look on his face. Clearly the Arbiter had been through here: he must have used his active camo to get a surprise attack on the Covenant patrol. It looked as though he had used a plasma grenade to soften them up, and then shot up the rest. But patrols always carried a beacon, which meant there was a search party incoming...

END PART ONE


	2. PART TWO

PART TWO

"First squad! Take up defensive positions on the hill. Second squad, fall back into the forest as cover. No one fire until I do. And stay quiet!" he barked. He dashed a ways back, and unstrapped his acquired beam rifle.

Some of the marines quickly understood, others lingered at the battle site questionably. After being yelled again at by the Sergeant they hurriedly fell into place. Johnson shifted back into some tall grasses, with only the very tip of the rifle protruding.

Sure enough, moments later a lone Grunt waddled into the pile of deceased. It was alerted, clumsily holding its plasma pistol at the ready, and it moved forward cautiously. Johnson tracked it with the rifle's scope, although the rangefinder was useless as it displayed the distance in Covenenant text. But he was waiting for a bigger prize: a Brute always commanded a patrol. The Brutes had replaced the Elite's role in the Covenant hierarchy. He just hoped the greenhorns would hold their fire and shut up until he was ready.

Another few Grunts followed the first, and then a Carbine-wielding Jackal stalked behind them. That could be a problem. The Jackals had new vision enhancer's that were imbedded into a helmet. It supposedly increased their already superb vision ten-fold. If it spotted even one marine, this could get messy. But the marines needed to wait for the entire patrol to get in range, so the they could take them all out quickly before the Covenant forces could return fire.

There it was: the Brute commander. It was clad with brand new golden power armor, and completely covered with bandoliers of extra Brute shot grenades. Another Jackal picked up the rear. Johnson lowered his rifle for a moment, and quickly sent a low frequency text message to the two squads: "Target Jackals first. Hold till I fire." They would understand. Next to the Brute, the two Jackals posed the largest threat. Now if only that Brute would turn slightly left…

Suddenly a Jackal screeched an unintelligible squawk and raised its Carbine up towards second squad's position: it must have spotted them! The rest of the patrol turned and readied their weapons, and the Brute roared: "Humans! Come out and I promise your death will be painless!"

He beated his chest like a gorilla before wielding his Brute shot. Johnson had to act quickly before the marines were overrun. Amazingly they were still keeping quiet. The sergeant squinted, steadied the reticule on the Brute's ugly head, lined up for a kill shot, held his breath, and fired. The alien rifle had a surprisingly small recoil, it loudly shot out a high pitched PZZEEW, and a fine blue beam of concentrated plasma discharged from the weapon's tip. The beam raced toward the Brute's head, along the way collided with a Grunt's skull and instantly killed it, continued through its head, and missed the Brute by mere inches.

Johnson cursed and resighted, this time he wasn't going to miss—but he was beat to the shot! Five consecutive beams of green Carbine laser slammed into the Brute's cranium, toppling it in a pool of its own blood. The rest of the group panicked at the loss of their leader: the two Jackals dropped their rifles and retreated into the woods, while the marines finally opened up with their MA5-C's, raining lead and tracers down on the remaining Grunts. The marines came out of hiding and put a few last shots into the corpses, and even kicked them for good measure. Johnson tracked a Jackal and dispatched it quickly before it could escape.

Ramirez was shot. It wasn't bad, but plasma weapons hurt. He was slumped against a boulder, clutching his right arm. Johnson called Connolly; the squad's assigned Navy coreman, over to the injured marine.

"Patch him up, but make it quick. We need to get a move on. You don't want to make us late for our date with the Master Chief, do you!?" He joked with Connolly.

"No sir, I'm right on it!" He replied.

While the remaining marines rejoiced over their victory, the Arbiter paced out from the bush, holding the remaining retreating Jackal speared on his energy sword. He disengaged its power, causing the double shimmering blades to retract, and the slump of a body fell to the ground.

"It was lucky that I had come by here, human." The Arbiter stated. Again the marines were drawn back by his deep human voice. He hooked the sword's hilt on his leg, and then hefted his captured Carbine that he had slung over his shoulder. "And you are even luckier that I am a better shot than you." He said smugly.

For once Johnson didn't have a smart remark. He was concerned: the Sergeant was a master marksman, even with foreign weaponry. He preferred to take long range rifles into combat, always. But he had just missed an easy shot. He wished that he could brush it off as old age getting to him, but he feared it was something more.

For an instant he was back on the Alpha halo. He wasn't unconscious or dead, but he was paralyzed. He was laying on a cold metal floor, under hundreds of feet of stone, in a chamber that housed the Flood. Horrible, parasitic, evil creatures. The scourge of the galaxy. The Flood was the entire reason they needed to win this war. The Covenant were a huge problem, but the Flood threatened every single living life form. Unless they were stopped, they would consume and mutate every sentient creature in the galaxy

He could still see: Jenkins and the rest of his squad lay beside him, with bulbous parasites eating away at them. The appalling creatures clung onto their necks, and he could see their tendrils probing the marine's spines. He wanted to throw up, but couldn't. The little abominations made horrible squelching noises from no visible mouth, although it could be the sound of human tissue gurgling. They rocked slowly as they engorged themselves on his comrades' nervous systems. Jenkins gave a horrible spasm. They were being infected, mutated and controlled by the parasites, slowly and painfully. Johnson was more terrified, however, because he knew there was one feasting on _his_ neck, although he couldn't feel it he knew it was there, he imagined its tentacles drilling through his bone and slipping under his skin…

He shook himself free, back to reality. Back to Earth, to the African jungle. The Arbiter motioned for them to follow, "Come, I will escort you to your Spartan. Do not linger.", and he set off into the woods at a fast pace.

The marines silently followed, running to keep up with him. They were getting close to their objective, but needed to take a few extra paths to avoid more enemy patrols. Twice they stopped so Johnson could kill Jackal scouts that were hiding in the forest canopy. They crossed a small river, and continued dashing ahead.

Johnson checked his computer uplink: they were only 100 meters from the Chief's crash site. The Arbiter broke off in order to surprise any awaiting enemies, and the marines approached the site. There was a hole in the tree cover, and a scorched crater beneath it. They stopped and followed it with their eyes. A scraped trail of earth led to the Master Chief, who lay rigid up against a rock some 20 meters away. Johnson worried for the worst. _Goddamn Spartans, always jumping from aircraft. Don't they know falling hundreds of feet can't possibly be safe?_ Although he criticized the Spartan's actions, the Sergeant felt a pang of guilt that _he_ wasn't the one laying dead. Earth needed the Chief, _he_ needed the Chief. He **couldn't** be dead.

END PART TWO


End file.
